La Fille du Fantôme
by pippa-writes
Summary: In which a stray child finds herself wandering the passageways of the Opera Garnier, days after Christine leaves Erik for good. In his heartbreak, the Phantom decides to adopt the child as his own, going as far as to call her Christine after his lost love. The antics that ensue are nothing short of crazy! One-shot based off a crazy group discussion that led to such an idea.
1. Chapter 1 Christine Da- wait

**In which, the Opera Ghost, days after the final departure of his love and 'Angel of Music', Christine Daae, finds a strange child wandering his tunnels beneath the opera house and makes it very clear that he wants nothing to do with her.**

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* * *

It was the treading of small shoes against the damp stone that first caught Erik's attention on that fateful day. In hindsight, perhaps he should simply have kept to the shadows, guided her out to the Rue Scribe and been done with it. But no. Would he always be so desperate, so impulsive?

"Christine..." he breathed, as the footsteps came closer. His Angel... surely, only his Angel would be able to find their way down to him through the new disarray that were his catacombs. Then, louder, and throwing himself from the shadows into the light of a torch, "Christine!"

He froze. This... this _person_ , was decidedly _not_ Christine Daae...

" _Qui es-tu_?" he cried.

The figure before him took a step back, and amongst the shadows, a pair of gleaming eyes shone back, as intelligent and curious as he remembered his own once had once been.

"Ah," he muttered. " _You're_ not my Christine."

Whoever she was, she could be no more than five years old, and a mop of short, blonde hair escaping the oversized boy's cap, coupled with the marks of dirt along her thin cheeks, hardly suggested she had strayed from her governess's side. Neither did the oversized waistcoat and trousers that hung from her skeletal frame. If he hadn't been trained to see beyond disguises, he could quite easily have mistaken her for a paperboy.

"How did you get down here?"

"Walked, M'sieur."

Erik shook his head in horror; he was entertaining children in these gloomy halls now? He knew he'd sunk to lows unparallel to any normal man, but _this_?

"Abscond!" he muttered, slinking back into the shadows of a nearby wall. "Return to wherever you came from and say nothing of my existence." He made to turn away, but the hand that suddenly caught his cloak sent a chill down his spine, cold enough to freeze him in place.

"Why?"

"Well..." He pulled his cloak out of her grip and swept her germs from it in mild disgust. "Don't you have a family to return to?"

She shook her head and several locks of dark hair fell over her face.

"No family, M'sieur."

Erik folded his arms over his chest, frowning behind his barre mask, which his broad-rimmed hat mercifully shadowed. "And I'm Louis-Philippe. What makes you think you're any more welcome in my home than any other place? It's a dog-eat-dog world, and I advise you to scat, Kitty Cat!"

But she stayed put and gazed around at the gloomy labyrinthine hallway. "This is your home?"

"Scat, I say!"

"Why is it so dark?"

"Child—"

"Don't you buy candles? You have just one torch over there." She returned her gaze to him and canted her head. "Are you a hero?"

"A _what_?" he spluttered, sweeping his cape about in frustration and sending a family of rats running. Was his anger so easily enflamed nowadays?

"You have a mask." Her eyes grew wide suddenly and she clapped to herself, a dirty-toothed grin spearing on her small lips, which the Ghost had not thought capable of stretching to accommodate. "You're wearing your disguise, M'sieur! Are you about to save someone?"

Stunned, the Opera Ghost could only stare at the child, who had, in the blink of an eye, become a fluster of girlish excitement that he hadn't seen coming. Was he to endure the same idiotic nature the ballet rats had possessed? Ah, but it was a small punishment; he had expected a long and painful death, though perhaps he might still be granted such a thing, just under different methods of torture.

"Yes..." he said at last, eyeing her reproachfully. "I am... a hero. Of sorts. And unless you leave this cellar at once, I will not be able to fly to the aid of a victim of a robbery. Now, for the last time, girl, abscond from my private property! Or I'll hand you over to the evil overlord of this domain! The... the Rat Catcher! Yes, the Rat Catcher will send his legions of rats after you if you don't disappear!"

She gave a loud squeal and Erik grimaced.

"Please!" she begged, catching his cloak again in both hands and staring up at him with a hope he could hardly bring himself to look at. "M'sieur, take me with you! I want to help you save someone!"

Ah, but more the fool was she. Had she known what he was capable of, she'd be gone by now, run off in a fit of screaming terror and left him to drown his misery of losing his Angel in glass after glass of Toulouse wine, which he had been fully intending to drink until his cellar was empty or he died of alcohol poisoning.

"Do remove yourself from my person, you little skelpie-limmer!" he cried, shoving her with such force she stumbled and landed on her derriere a number of feet away. The laughs died in a sudden strangulation, replaced by the horrified shock that now swept over her eyes.

And then came the tears.

Erik grimaced again and retreated into the shadows a little way. "Oh, do stop you whinging, child! Are you not aware of the golden rule of childhood?: be seen and not heard! Did your mother teach you nothing?"

"No mother," she gasped through her bawls. "She were dead when I were just a babe!"

"Your father then!"

She gritted her teeth and wiped her cheeks furiously, trying not to choke on the sobs that racked her tiny body. She lifted her chin, but her defiance faltered and more tears trickled down her dirty cheeks, streaking the mud down her skin like the terrible 'accident' Carlotta had once endured with her stage makeup.

"Never met him."

 _Never met him._

Erik turned away. How often had he stared into the only mirror in his house — the one he'd gifted to his Angel as an early engagement present — and wondered how much of his ravaged face he shared with his own father? His mother had kept the only remaining portrait of her husband and a lock of his dark hair in a permanently locked jewellery box in her bedside cupboard. Thus, he'd never known his own father's face, the shape of his eyes and curve of his lips, or the way he held himself, whether upright with pride or a slouched kindness. Had he been tall like his son had grown to be? His mother said Erik had inherited his father's golden eyes, but was that where the similarities ended? He'd never know.

"Are you hurt?" he whispered, not turning to the child as she gasped for control of her tears. So young, and yet so adamant to be a strong young woman... or boy... _Why_ exactly was she wearing boy's clothing?

He heard the squelches that suggested she was rubbing her eyes dry. "What?"

"Are you hurt?" he said, more abruptly this time and turning back to her at last. She scuttled back along the stone in shock and the clear sound of ripping fabric echoed through the dimness of the passageway.

"I'm fine," she muttered, making to stand up and holding her arm.

Erik moved before he could stop himself and offered her his hand. "Liar. You're obviously bleeding. Look here! See the blood you've left on my stone? Come, I shall attend to you."

She clutched her arm tighter. "I can look after myself."

"You are no more than five years old," the Opera Ghost scoffed. "Now for pity's sakes, child, do you wish to catch septicaemia? Keep up, if you can."

She let him take her hand and found herself swept away into the darkness of the long hallway.

With the child being so small and he quite the opposite, Erik found himself stooping at the waist for ten minutes as he tried to guide the little life-form through the darkness. Eventually, fed up of the burning in his hips — Lord knew he was far too old for this — and finding her stampcrab ways quite annoying, he stopped her.

"M'si—"

Her words ended as a mess of syllables as Erik's thin, gloved hands hoisted her into his arms. He shifted her about on his hip, suppressing nerves as he moved on once more. What if he dropped her? What if he was so distracted, he walked them both into a trap?

He shook off those thoughts with a growl. The child in his arms tensed and he cursed himself internally for forgetting her for a moment.

The rest of the walk through the darkness was spent in silence. All the better, for although Erik was surefooted even when their path was pitch-black, he was unused to the company.

When at last the candlelight at the end of the tunnel signalled their approach on the House on the Lake, he set the child down, confident there were no more traps. He led her to the boat that always sat on the banks of his lake, waiting for his return, and hoisted her once more, this time onto a cushion at the front which he usually occupied to read a novel on the rocking vessel. She watched in silent awe as he leapt aboard and seized the punt, pushing them away from the banks in three easy movements.

The boat moved through the inky waters with barely a trickle or slosh. He pretended not to watch her but found himself amused as she trailed her hand in the water, as if the phenomenon was entirely new. For a girl so young, he thought, it probably was.

The silence afforded him time enough to think. Of course, he knew he must return the child as soon as he was certain she would not die, especially by his hand. And yet, something within him dropped when he imagined that prospect. Had he been so deluded as to wholeheartedly believe his Christine would find her way back to him? Truly, he was going mad. It was a rush of such madness that now saw him steering a child into his home. A child! Good grief! And for shame, that he did not even know her name!

Was it pity that had softened his heart long enough for him to guide her down here? Or something more; empathy, perhaps?

"What is your name?" he asked, praying the days he'd spent crying in the ruins that had once been a respectable home had not made his voice too scarily rasp for someone so young. But she pulled a face of confusion and regarded him with the same cant of her head that habit seemed to have graced her with.

"Name?" she repeated. "No name, M'sieur."

No name. Were the similarities never to cease?

"I am Erik," he replied. "I was given that name by an old friend of mine. Like you, I never knew my father, nor did my mother care to name me—"

"My mother were dead before she saw me, Enjie said."

"Enjie?"

"My brother."

"And, where is he? Surely he named you?"

"Dead, I thinks. Caught stealing a loaf'o bread and they put him in the cells. He never came out for me. If he gave me a name, I don't remember it, M'sieur."

Erik paused the punt in the water for a long moment and stared at his young passenger. "I will name you then," he said at last. "From this day on, you will be Christine."

Her little, almond eyes, which he now made out in the light of the lakeside torches, went round with glee.

"And you will be my new Papa, no?"

He grimaced at that and resumed pushing the boat through the waters. "Let's not get too far ahead of our—"

But she'd already scuttled over to him, almost tipping the boat in her excitement, and wrapped herself amongst his cloak.

"Ah, yes, well..." he stammered as she leaned against his legs and snuggled further into his cloak, leaving just the mop of dirty, blonde hair poking out. He cleared his throat. "Let us not forget our personal boundaries."

And he nudged her away with his foot, so she no longer touched him, and the cloak fell away from her shoulders.

Before she could open her mouth to complain, he undid the clasp at his neck with one, deft hand, and swished it through the air so it landed over her. She pawed at the fabric until her head reappeared, graced with a thick scowl.

"Now, now, Christine," he said, shaking a finger at her. "That is not a ladylike face to make. That will be the first thing I shall teach you; after all, polite society cannot have such a face amongst it, especially on a young lady."

"Teach?" she repeated.

"And then you must learn to read and write. There are far too many illiterate idiots in the city. An education will benefit you greatly! And music! You shall learn to play the violin, I think. Your hands are fit for such an instrument; I will not have you waste such advantages on percussion, you hear?"

By now, she was gaping. Erik clamped his mouth shut. He was doing it again; the habit Nadir Khan had so often scorned him for. He was jumping to high hopes, fantasies of what could be, conclusions that might well be misled from the start. And yet, here was his chance at redemption; yes, he was aware he had named her Christine, but perhaps he could raise a child, an educated child with an instrument to play, to repay the world for the loss he had provided. Yes, it was a promising idea, surely! This child would be his replacement. He would pass on his rather extensive knowledge to her, and then release it into the world as a reparation, a substitute for himself.

But first, her arm needed seeing to. His new dreams would never be anything but dreams if she died before the week was up.


	2. Christine Da- Oh, not again!

**_I didn't think there'd be a part two, but here we are! This chapter length is reasonably typical of those in Porcelain Mask (3.5K words), give or take a few hundred words. Enjoy!_**

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"If I find another Ming Dynasty vase smashed when I return," Erik said, pushing his felt hat on and holding his cloak around his shoulders at his neck, "you will be _beyond_ grounded."

"Let me go with you then! I'm sure leaving me alone is illegal in at least forty-five countries anyhow!"

"Then let them try to find me." He fiddled with the clasp, finally able to flick the side over his shoulder to fix his waistcoat. "I shall eat my hat should any _gendarme_ worm his way past my traps and the siren."

A pair of sharp eyes rolled from beneath the curls of blonde hair. Christine folded her arms.

"It's not fair," she scowled, kicking the stone chippings on the lake bank. "I should be allowed to go Up Top! I could find food and clothes and everything else just as easily as you, Papa!"

Erik winced at the name but leapt into his boat with the elegance of their little cat, Ayesha. Christine reached after him and stomped her foot when he flicked his cape out of her grasp.

" _Papa!_ "

"You are still in trouble for trying to set the bathing towels on fire."

"That was _weeks_ ago!"

Erik pretended to ponder this thought, so pious and innocent that Christine wanted nothing more than to try her antics once more.

"So it was," he said, and he pushed away from the bank with the punt. "Wait here for me, Christine. I won't be long; take no thought to misbehave in my absence! And please, practise your scales. That violin has yet to be used today!"

But she gave a loud, indignant 'hmph!', and disappeared up the bank and through the front door.

Taking that as a sign of reluctant obedience, he sighed and pushed the boat through the inky waters. She would learn, preferably sooner rather than later, but she would learn. The world above was not safe for her. He'd made that mistake just the other month, and wouldn't be repeating it any time soon. No, no it was far better that she stay and practise her music. There would come a day in a number of years when he deemed her fit to go Up Top, but that day was not today, nor would it be tomorrow or the day after that.

He could not let another angel fly from his arms.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, little Christine pulled a chair across the floorboards and climbed onto the counter. She _would_ go and practise, honest, but first, a quick nibble on one or two of her Papa's 'secret' box of buttercream queen cakes. She'd caught him with the buttercream on his mask more than once as he put her to bed with a kiss, and she was not as stupid as he thought her. He wouldn't miss one or two, and if he did, he could very easily buy more.

She pushed the chair back, clutching a queen cake with a triumphant grin, and headed for the library.

Ayesha gave a disgruntled meow as Christine ambled over to her little, wooden armchair and picked up her sketchbook from the smaller side table. Papa had been bored enough to make them for her the other week for Christmas, which she'd insisted on celebrating, with a little, working cupboard in the table for her pencils and books; it had taken a few days to coax Ayesha from there when she claimed it as her new, personal cave.

She settled there with the pencils he'd bought and flipped to a new page, munching happily on the queen cake. She set to work scribbling a picture of the sleeping Ayesha on Papa's bigger, comfier armchair, where the cat was technically forbidden from laying but did so anyhow.

So engrossed was Christine in her sketching that she didn't hear the front door open, or the pattering of dainty feet down the hall. She stuck her tongue out slightly, trying to get the slope of Ayesha's back right, not easy for a five-year-old.

"Oh!" a voice squeaked. Christine jolted in her seat, her sketchbook falling to the floor. Ayesha awoke with a hiss. "Oh, excuse me! I was looking for Monsieur Erik! Forgive me, I thought he'd be home!"

Christine shot out of her armchair and jumped behind her Papa's, quaking with fear. There on the door threshold of her library, stood the most beautiful woman she'd ever laid eyes on, with masses of golden hair piled on her head in a neat, fashionable style. Big, doe brown eyes reflected the flames of the fire Christine had never known to go out in these cold, winter months. And her dress! Her beautiful, dark brown dress, almost mahogany and nothing like the brown rags Christine was used to wearing before Papa gave her the new frocks.

She couldn't help but gape. "Are you a fairy?" she managed to whisper.

The woman on the threshold canted her head. "A fairy? Why? Are my wings showing? I thought I tucked them away. Do tell me!"

And gave a slow turn, her skirts brushing the floorboards with gentle swishing noises. Christine peered over the armrest, squinting at the woman's back with her keen eyes. Sure enough, this fairy had hidden her giveaway features very well; there were no wings or even evidence that she stowed a pair beneath her dress to be had.

"No..." she said, moving out from behind her Papa's armchair with a trembling voice. The woman turned back, her feet perfectly _en pointe_. Evidence perhaps of a life of dancing, as young Christine had so often watched the ballerinas on stage, sat on her father's knee in his private box on the grand tier. Some straggles of hair had fallen loose from her hairdo, which should have made her look messy, but instead gave her a peculiar regality. The lady smiled at Christine, and she couldn't help but blush. Should she curtsey? Was it custom to ask if a lady was a princess in the fairy world? Was there harm in trying?

Christine cleared her throat. "A... are you a fairy princess?" she mumbled, playing with a length of her own golden hair. The lady smiled.

She crossed the library floor with light, long steps, almost flowing like a stream towards Christine, her feet still like a ballerina's, so much so that Christine wondered what she'd look like in a tutu amongst the dancer's in her father's employment. She'd put them all to shame, surely!

"I am," the woman smiled, ducking down beside her and pushing some of the stray hair back into its style. Christine watched with baited breath; she, a lowly Parisian commoner, was speaking to a real-life fairy princess, in her Papa's library!

 _Papa._

What if he found her here? He'd never taken her seriously when she ran back in from playing in the woods, claiming to have played with the fairies there. When she tried to show him, he'd ruffle her hair and comment on her 'extensive belief in the magical and wonderful', then leave to cook dinner.

He couldn't find the princess! She wouldn't let him! Christine had listened to the stories of Asian fairies, who died when people didn't believe in them (though according to the books she'd barely managed to read, he'd greatly changed the stories and made them less... scary).

"Do you want a queen cake?" Christine said shyly, playing with more hair. The fairy tilted her head and frowned lightly.

"The cakes from the cupboard in the kitchen?" she asked. Christine went red. "Monsieur Erik's buttercream ones? Are you allowed to eat those?"

"Not really," Christine admitted. She tensed, expecting a scolding. Papa's scoldings were horrible. He always calmed down when Christine found herself crying in fear and hiding under the table, but it was still scary. She didn't know what a fairy princess would do if she was upset. "He'll be home soon. He went to get some food for the week. You can't let him see you!"

"I know," she sighed, her eyes wandering sadly to the fire. "I don't know exactly why I came... I'm sure he's done everything to put me out of mind."

Christine gasped, clutching the princess's hand. "You know my Papa?"

The fairy looked back at her. Her frown lifted ever so slightly into a smile, and she brushed the messy lengths of hair Christine had neglected to brush earlier back behind her little ear. "Yes, my dear. I came to see him. But it might have been a bad idea... I think I should go–"

"No! Don't!" Christine clutched her hand even tighter as the fairy lady stood up. "You can stay! There are more fairies in Papa's forest! You can live with them!"

The princess chuckled. "And how can I hide there?"

"You could..." Christine racked her brains in desperation. "You could shrink to their size so Papa doesn't find you! He never sees my other fairies because they're so small! Only little people can see them!"

The princess chuckled again. "Little girl, why are you here? How did Monsieur Erik become your Papa?"

"He found me! Oh please, your majesty, don't go! It's lonely here! Ayesha doesn't play with me, and Papa's usually busy!" And she wound herself up the fairy's arm like bindweed, gazing imploringly at her.

"I'm sure I'll be able to visit. My dear, you must tell me honestly: does Monsieur Erik hurt you? I don't like the idea of you being all alone down here with him."

"So stay!"

"You didn't answer me."

Christine hesitated. "He raises his voice at times. That scares me. But he's a good, lovely Papa! He reads me bedtime stories and kisses me goodnight! And look! Look! He made me this armchair and cabinet for Christmas!"

The fairy breathed a sigh, perhaps of relief. Christine couldn't quite tell.

"I will visit you one day, little one," she said, unwrapping Christine's tight hands from her wrist and arm.

"Promise?"

"I prom–"

"What," a low, dark voice said, reverberating around the room with such contained anger that Christine froze, "are you doing in here with my daughter?"

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

Christine clutched the fairy's dress. "Papa—"

But his cold, hard glare remained fixed on the princess, glowering, fuming. He dropped the boxes he'd been carrying and reached out a hand. His eyes didn't move from the lady. And hers didn't drop from him. "Christine Madeleine, you come here this instant."

"But Papa—!"

"I said _here_!"

She froze in terror, gazing up at the princess with tears in her eyes. "You can't take her away! She's my friend!"

But she trudged to his side anyhow and let him catch her little hand in his large, pointy one, his grip tight.

"What are you doing down here?" he said to the lady, his voice softer now, quieter. But Christine had learnt by now that his quiet anger was just as, if not more, explosive and dangerous as his loud voice.

The fairy lifted her chin. "You called her Christine."

He pushed her behind him with a sneer. "Answer my question, Madame."

"Do you mean to use her for the same things you did with me?" the fairy argued, her sweet, gentle hands balling into white fists at her sides. Christine couldn't control the tears that slipped down her cheeks at the sight of her regal friend growing so fiery. She tugged on her father's hand, desperate for his attention for just a moment.

"What does it matter to you what I name my own daughter?"

"She's not your daughter!" the lady cried, flinging her hands up. "Erik! Erik, do you really mean to make me believe you gave that poor girl life? With which woman?"

"Do not say such things in front of her!" he shouted back, turning and clamping his hands over Christine's ears. "For heaven's sakes, she's five-years-old!"

"You must let her go–!"

 _"Never!"_

"Erik! I came to make amends, and I found a child down here instead! This is not the sort of life she deserves! You cannot kidnap little girls!"

"I didn't kidnap her, I _found_ her! You'd do well to go back to your husband! She's _mine_ , Christine!"

Christine gasped and looked up at her Papa. He stole a glance at her and sighed a long breath. His thumb rubbed small circles on her shoulder.

"You are not welcome in my house, especially not near my daughter. Now, Madame, I will ask you once more to leave. And Christine to go to her bedroom."

" _Papa_ –"

"Christine." His tone was final, his word equally so. Christine hung her head and made for the door, shooting a remorseful glance at her fairy princess over her shoulder. The other Christine smiled gently, nodding her on her way.

Erik waited until the door shut behind his little treasure to march to her side and catch her arm. "Why did you come down? No one enters Erik's home without his permission, and he did not invite you here!"

"Is this a new habit of yours, Erik? Kidnapping little girls from their mother's prams?"

He gripped that bit harder. Christine bit her lip but refused to show any more signs of pain. "This is how low I have sunk in your mind, my dear? You think me cold enough to deprive a child of their mother's love? I imagined you less shallow than that! Now, answer me, child! Answer me!"

"I came," she replied, in the calm voice he'd come to associate with cooling his temper, "to apologise for your troubles in training me. And to give you this."

And she kissed his masked cheek.

Erik froze.

"You made a mistake when you addressed me," she said, pulling back to a respectable distance. "I am not Madame. I am still Mademoiselle."

The kiss had somewhat bewitched him, and he stumbled over his words, trying to find the right ones. "W... what about Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Christine opened her mouth to reply. It shut just as quickly.

Erik wasn't quick enough to catch her as she crumpled into his armchair and gripped the armrest, fighting tears.

"I had hoped you wouldn't ask me that," she hissed, turning away when he ducked to her level and tried to meet her eyes. "No, no don't. Don't you _dare_ patronize me, Erik! I don't want your sympathy!"

"Did he lay a finger on you that you did not wish him to?" A spark of fury, the crackles of a reigniting fire, came in a sharp burst in his veins. If she said yes, nothing in heaven nor earth would know the extent of tortures he would put that boy through, not even Erik himself. "Christine? _Christine_?"

She batted the hand he reached towards her away in horror. "You know _nothing_ about my Raoul! He would never have done such things to me, to any woman! How could you accuse him of something like that? He held nothing against you when he had every right to!"

"You griped at me before for using my third person habit, my dear. Why do you speak in the past tense?"

"Because," she started, cut off as tears pooled in her soft eyes. She gripped her dress at the knees and pushed the tears down, shaking herself back into decorum. She sat straight in the chair, poised like the lady she ought to be, with her hands folded in her lap and feet tucked back. Erik couldn't help but admire her as she drew a deep breath, closed her eyes and spoke, as if reciting a poem by heart. "Raoul's ship sank the other week off the coast of Spain. I came in search of new employment."

Erik could count the number of times he'd been completely dumbfounded on just one of his yellowed, skeletal hands. This was one of them. He sank back on his legs, watching the woman he'd given his entire soul to, fallen so painfully in love with, as she wiped her tears furiously and turned her face to the fire, away from him.

The Vicomte...

Philippe's death had partly been Erik's fault. Alright, a little more than partly. Mostly, in fact. It was his lake, his boat and his voice. It was a shame to lose the man, he'd reflected afterwards. Everything had been a shame, Erik's very _existence_ had been a shame. It was why he took every bottle of wine he'd saved for his wedding feast and other special occasions from the cellar and stacked them on his shelves, quite prepared to drink himself into oblivion, perhaps, if God was merciful, to death.

But Raoul... Raoul had been a worthy opponent in the end. If Erik had to lose anything, even Christine Daae, to anyone, he could not have chosen anyone else, nor would he have. The man had been so full of youth, life, with a bright future as Count, pockets full. Christine would have had such a wonderful life; was it any wonder she left her Maestro in the first place?

He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, fishing about in his pocket for a handkerchief. Christine turned it away and fetched her own, pushing herself from the chair.

"No. I see I am no longer wanted here."

"Don't say that," he said, standing after her, "of course I want you here!"

"No," she replied through gritted teeth, pausing her march towards the door and turning back to him with a scowl. "You want unmarried, unbound, naïve, manipulated Christine Daae here. You couldn't face Christine de Changy, and to deny one part is to deny all others. If you truly wanted me here, you would not have shouted, especially not in the presence of a little girl! I will see myself out, once you assure me she is happy here and under no threat from you or your malevolent tricks."

He moved after her, making to touch her shoulders. She flinched away and strode for the door.

"She is safe, I assure you. I'd kill the person to touch a hair of her head out of place, you know I would."

Christine watched him for a long moment, her hand on the door handle. "That's what went wrong last time," she muttered, and then she was gone, the door clicking to a close behind her. Erik sank into his chair and pulled his mask off, much to Ayesha's disgust. He swatted her away and leaned back into the cushion, wanting nothing more than a glass of the 1855 red wine he'd been saving; another 'special occasion' he didn't think he'd last long enough to see.

The Vicomte – well, he would have been Comte when he died, wouldn't he? – was no more, was he not? That deserved a toast; not to his death, but to his bravery, his valiant efforts. To his victory over a foe who'd never truly know real conquer before, certainly not conquer of the heart. But the wine would have to wait. He had a distressed child to put to bed properly.


End file.
